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A house full of memories

I am spending this week in the house I grew up in, my mothers house. We moved out of here when I was Twelve and into my step fathers house, my mother never sold this place but rented it out to a family instead. Now she wants to sell it, so here we are again. This week she is on holiday, so I am taking car of the place, and my cat, while she is away which is more than a little challenging. I am sleeping in my sisters old bedroom, as my old bedroom is the size of a closet (being the youngest and the unplanned child I lucked out on the bedroom choosing). Its odd to be back, to see the bedroom where I would come home from my fathers house and hide under that bed. Where I slept in the toy box as a little girl because I thought my teddy bears needed the warmth of the bed more than I did. This is the place where I hid as my parents fought loudly in the living room, where the police came to take away my big brother to prison, where I fell off the garage roof, while hiding up there so that I didnt have to go with the man who was abusing me who was supposed to be taking us to my fathers house.

Somehow being back here has made me feel empowered. Im big now, and I am not hiding from anyone who walks up the driveway. Noone is yelling and noone is being taken away. All of that happened to a scared little girl, which I am not anymore. And as sad as I am to remember those things, and relive them so clearly being in this house, I kow that I am past all of that now. Being here I feel like I have finally found a little piece of myself that was left behind in this house, hiding in the closet or under the bed. And when I leave this time I will remember to take her with me.

I am certainly not healed yet, not even close, and I know I will never be completely healed from what happened, but I am moving on for the first time in my life and I am doing it all for the kid who once lived in this house.